


A Man Possessed

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Sniper’s eyes pulled open, they were sticky and his vision blurry. Immediately, his heart rate was up, nausea setting in, and he fought it, as well as the cloying desire to simply close his eyes again, return to the dreamless state from which he awoke. Only, where was he? That thought wormed into his consciousness like an itch in his inner ear, and he cast about for an answer, uneasy, wondering why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Possessed

When the Sniper’s eyes pulled open, they were sticky and his vision blurry. Immediately, his heart rate was up, nausea setting in, and he fought it, as well as the cloying desire to simply close his eyes again, return to the dreamless state from which he awoke. Only, where was he? That thought wormed into his consciousness like an itch in his inner ear, and he cast about for an answer, uneasy, wondering why.

Where had he been? Had he finally been abducted by aliens, and woken up in the midst of the procedure? No no, that wasn’t likely. He didn’t even feel weightless or anything. He remembered now, he remembered RED, and the battle, the nest he’d set up at Gullywash… Crikey, it was like getting dental work done. He was so groggy, and wondered how long he’d spent thinking about the situation. He couldn’t see well enough to guess at time, or location, or even if he was in any danger.

With a sudden jolt of fear it occurred to him that there could have been a problem with respawn. What if he was stuck in some kind of mechanically-induced limbo? Was he alive or dead, anyway? He took a deep breath. Right, well, that was a count for ‘alive’. There was twisted fabric shoved between his teeth, and wrapped around his head, like a horse’s bit and bridle. Why? He thought his glasses might be missing. Alright then… He blinked, trying to clear his vision, couldn’t feel his extremities to rub his face, and felt heavy, sick.

 

There was a light in his face. He couldn’t shut it out, tried turning first one way, then the other. Then, a shadow fell over him. Fragments of memory and cognizance came back to him, wove together, made his adrenaline spike as footsteps neared. It was the smell that really triggered it, though, his struggle, his concerted effort to get away, to find some way out of the bonds around his wrists and ankles, to try to move the legs of the plain ladderback chair that dug into his shoulder blades and locked his thighs at an uncomfortably vulnerable angle.

 

It was the smell of cloves, and burning, strong and pungent and bringing to mind the kind of conceptual pain that went with a sudden, violent death: that pain that should have been sharper, but because death was so near, the physicality of corporeal pain seemed so far off, save the quick, metallic tang of blood… In respawn, he would remember having thought (in the few frantic moments before death) it might be the taste of the man’s knife, gone straight through the bones of his spine to his throat, to the back of his tongue, from somewhere oft unseen behind him. He shivered, as that smoke puffed hot and stinging across his face, burned thickly in his eyes and blotted out all memory of the sick-sweet stench that had hovered around his mouth and nose when he awoke. The other man leaned down, silhouetted dramatically by the single overhead light. The Spy WOULD make a movie cliché out of whatever this was, wouldn’t he… The Sniper swallowed dryly, and around the gag his mouth tasted like grenadine. Meanwhile the Spy stood by, regarding him coolly in his usual way. The Sniper shifted warily. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into this place.

He didn’t even remember the Spy coming into his loft. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat and he tried to make out the Spy’s expression in the shadows, made the vague effort to chew through the cloth between his teeth.

 

"There is no easy way to say this," the Spy said, as if to no one in particular. The Sniper squirmed again. That was not a line he’d heard before from the masked saboteur. It was unsettlingly devoid of malice, and if the BLU Spy seemed almost sorry about whatever he was about to say or do, then the Sniper had no means of preparing for it. Death, he could accept. Pain, he could at least endure. Words, though, words and thoughts had a way of getting in under his skin and creating a chronic condition. He couldn’t begin to guess at what was coming.

 

"… But honestly, this has gotten out of hand, and I’m afraid I’m forced to do something about it."

 

What? What role did the Sniper have in this war game that meant the Spy would drag him, alone (he assumed), to whatever BLU stronghold the bare concrete floor suggested they occupied now? He squinted into the light, furrowing his brows at the man-shaped shadow, and tried to pull his wits together. He didn’t think he was any more important than others on his team. Maybe he was just easiest to capture and carry, weight and speed wise. He tended to stay in one place longer than other team mates… The Sniper wasn’t the sort to go reading other people’s motives and modes of operation, though. He simply couldn’t.

 

And, already too much of his time was spent glancing over his shoulder, second-guessing every living body on the field, watching, waiting, for that telltale sound of a dropped cloak and the clinging scent of Indonesian cigarettes. The Spy sighed a plume of smoke.

 

"So you see, it simply… cannot be helped." The man turned, and the Sniper could tell he was being scrutinized. His pulse roared in his ears. "I suppose my fixation is no secret to you, n’est-ce pas?"

 

Though his face was obscured, the Spy’s leather gloves suddenly caught the light as he ashed his cigarette, the picture of clipped composure.

 

The Sniper’s heart seemed to stop and he felt colour drain from his face so quickly it made his lips sting. “Always taking a special pleasure in coming after you for a quick backstab, even though you always perch so dreadfully out of my way, even though it would be more tactically beneficial to go after your Heavy, your Medic, your

Engineer…” he took a deep drag. “As you are so fond of saying, -I am a professional-. This is truly unacceptable.” The Sniper had broken out in a cold sweat. Even as a hardened mercenary, the surreality of this situation churned his guts. At least on previous jobs, if he were captured, he would have known what to expect. With respawn, and the medigun, it was an entirely different game. Worse, the Spy was not accusing the Sniper of anything other than, well, being an inconvenience. It wasn’t even anything about the Sniper, himself, nothing, as far as what the Spy had said, the knife-wielding BLU had uncovered. What unkind intentions could—? He’d seen what the man could and would do on the battlefield. What would he do, here?

 

Suddenly, the Spy turned, and his face fell into the light.

 

"This kind of distraction, it has come to this.” He gestured with his cigarette at the Sniper’s bound form, smoke outlining him in the air. The prone marksman searched the Spy’s expression, and then those ice-blue eyes met his, lancing him and making his innards jitter. “So I will have my wicked way with you, then I shall untie you, and we’ll kill eachother, and with any luck we can move on.” His features were schooled into a steely expression of grim determination, but as the Sniper sputtered and made noises around the gag, the Spy’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly.

 

He couldn’t risk chloroforming the other man again; what with the ridiculous treatments the bushman had undertaken to enlarge his kidneys, an overdose of chloroform had the distinct risk of death related to sudden renal failure, and then respawn would pick him up, and where would the Spy be then, hm? All of this effort for nothing.

 

Just for him to admit to himself that this debacle was detrimental to his performance had taken considerable internal debate, not to mention the consequent planning, the concoction of the chloroform, the timing such that he would be in the Sniper’s roost with enough time to soak a rag with precisely the right amount at such a moment that BLU claimed a victory and if the Sniper didn’t show up after the humiliation round, RED would not miss him immediately, and in such a place that the Spy could carry the incapacitated Australian away without attracting attention. He was disgusted with himself for the amount of premeditation this rendezvous required, horrified at the time he’d wasted by lusting, appalled at the overall lapse in professional demeanor that had led to this… arrangement. He resisted the urge to sneer.

 

Instead, he flicked away the remnants of his cigarillo and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his blazer. The Sniper, with his sharp, coffee-stained teeth worrying the kerchief that curbed his words, continued to slur hysterically, face pleading but ardent, red with furor. The Spy could almost imagine that flush was from desire instead of rage, and his pulse quickened. His gloves soaked up the sweat between his fingers as he took a cautious step toward his twitching, struggling captive. Moisture gathered above his lip; it was annoyingly one of those few places his uniform didn’t cover, and he licked at the salt, watching the Sniper watch him. He probably looked like he was licking his chops. Well, so be it. Finally he kneeled over the man’s legs and placed a hand on a stubbled cheek, the touch tender for a moment before becoming an iron grip on the Sniper’s long, thin jaw.

 

When the Spy crushed his lips against the Sniper’s, eyelids drooping, trying to consume the way the other’s chapped lips still attempted to form words, his heart throbbed, and some desperate part of him wanted the rangy, wiry man to just… just stop. He wrapped himself around his tall enemy, wool of his suit smearing the gathered dust and sweat on the back of the Sniper’s neck. He closed his eyes, and the Sniper caught the Spy’s bottom lip momentarily between his own, leaned forward, grunted, squirmed, tilted his head and sealed their mouths more closely together.

 

The gag pulled his lips tight and he resorted to merely rubbing them against the Spy’s, eyes closed, brows furrowed.

 

The Spy fell backward, staring, and the Sniper looked up at him, panting harshly around the sodden cloth. With suspicious confusion, the Spy searched hazel eyes. Seemingly from nowhere he withdrew his infamous knife, flicked it open, and the Sniper shivered, but the Spy only sat on his heels, hovering over long, bandy thighs with his blade poised somewhere near the Sniper’s left ear. The Sniper tried to hold his breath.

 

“What was that?!” The Spy’s question, practically hissed through smoke-greyed teeth, sounded like a venomous accusation. He sniffed, recoiling slightly. “Do not hope that by playing along, you can trick me. I would seriously urge you against any misguided attempts to meddle with my,” his lip twitched, “—emotions.” The Sniper’s expression remained unchanged, staring up with something close to sadness creasing around his eyes, and he merely coughed, quietly. The knife was cold and terrible against his throat and the Spy’s nostrils flared as he drew their faces near again, teeth bared. A short, harsh sound of frustration escaped the masked man. Still the Sniper held his gaze.

 

“You had better not make me regret this,” the Spy warned as the knife’s point skittered up over wind-roughed skin and coarse stubble, the pressure not yet enough to draw blood, but enough to raise gooseflesh on tanned forearms. The flat of the blade slid under the twisted cotton gag and turned harshly. The Sniper stifled his intake of breath, but the sharpened edge only bit into the fabric, not into his flesh.

 

A smart tug with the knife had the gag loose, and, still maintaining eye contact, the Sniper pushed it slowly out of his mouth with his tongue. Only then did he look away, taking a few moments to stretch his jaw and swallow, to wet his dry lips and swallow again.

 

The Spy still held his balisong in hand, though with the Sniper bound hand and foot, he wasn’t sure what caused his hesitance. It was probably the same uncertainty that had first set his mind ticking after his strange enemy, to begin with.

 

“Well?”

 

The Spy’s demand made the Sniper glance up again and as he searched what little of the angular features the mask exposed, the grim set of his mouth twitched. He took a deep breath and looked at his knees.

 

“I…”

 

His feet curled in their boots.

 

“I- I want it too, you stupid slimy wanker!” There, he’d said it, and though his cheeks felt hot, he forced his eyes up to glower at the Spy who had put him through hell and a half. It was all almost worth it for the look on the poncey git’s face, with his jaw working indecisively, and brows nearly swallowed by the mask, and the rapid blinking… he looked like a landed fish. The Sniper continued: “What the hell do you mean by doing all of, of—“ he gestured with his chin,

“—THIS, ya nancy bleedin’ snake?!”

 

“Means to an end,” the Spy replied quietly, attempting to regain self-control. He’d just learned a bit of information, and in his estimation, ought to have been putting it to use, only, once again the RED Sniper’s complete inability to react like an ordinary human being had thrown him for a loop and redoubled his curiosity.

 

“Means to an—? Well, that’s all fine and good for you, then, eh? S’pose I could’ve loaded me gun with tranqs at any time and pulled means to an end, just dragged you off to shag you ragged? Only, I’m not a bloody rapist! Christ.” The Sniper wanted to spit, and the Spy’s stomach dropped out at the use of that word, but the Sniper went on. “Lord knows why I want it still, don’t make a lick of sense. Never did. There I’d be, watchin’ everything through th’ scope, and there you’d be, with that weird skippin’ run you do, makin’ trouble for me ‘n my team—I don’t fault you for that, ‘course, it’s your job, like. Same as killin’ you lot is mine. Only reason I had any tiff with you is, yeah, you seemed especially keen on jabbin’ that knife into me, more so ‘n any other RED bloke.” He scoffed, and his mouth twitched, but after a brief pause, he kept talking. “So I thinks to meself, right then, I’ll just have to give as good as I get. Have to keep a special look out for you, too, just t’ keep things all even-steven. So I did. Had t’ protect meself, ‘course, so I got the Razorback, but then you got that ruddy hand-cannon, so I learned Jarate, and then you got yerself some fancy new watches and I had to be even MORE careful, lookin’ out, because sometimes I’d put a hole through your temples only t’ find you were just playin’ possum.” He exhaled through his teeth. “What a great bloody waste of my time, waitin’ around to see if you show up again after I’ve just good’n killed you. You don’t always make me wait long, though; that vengeful streak a’yours. Sure ‘nuff, was a time like that I saw you put your knife to our Medic, and just as I was lining up the shot, you pulled back your knife and licked it.”

 

The Sniper was facing the Spy, but didn’t seem to really see him— his pupils hugely dilated and his expression distant.

 

“Now, why’d you go an’ do a thing like that?” His voice was quiet, light. “That got me to thinkin’, did you have some kind of daft affection for our doctor? ‘Course, I had to put the bullet in your head, either way, but the more I paid attention, the more I saw you doing it, and not just with the Medic, neither, but you know that. Any time you thought you could get away with it, that blade of yours would be at your lips, and I could see through the scope the way your tongue would reach for it, slide up over the steel and probe at the bit handle. Sometimes, you’d even go so far as to suck the blood from your gloves, if they got splashed, and I’d watch your face. Could’ve shot you a hundred times in those moments, sure, but I’d wait ‘til you were done and you looked like you were about to cloak, before putting you down.” He seemed to be staring off over the shoulder of the Spy’s blue wool suit, licking at his lips as he spoke.

 

“And I wondered— I wondered if you’d ever done that, with me, if you’d ever laid me out and then licked my blood off your knife, if you’d tasted it, and— and it was inside you, if you could recognize the taste of me on your blade, or on your hands, and I wanted to know what you tasted like, your flesh and sweat and everything, and I wondered who it was you liked the taste of the most, and I realized how fucking intimate your knife is, how close you have to get for that clean backstab, but how much closer you get, tasting our blood, getting inside of us, and I wanted, I wanted to taste and get inside you, and I never want that, I never want to get close, you know because mostly I’m keen to just watch, but suddenly I wanted to… to suck out your soul from between your thin, fucking cruel lips and swallow it to hold inside of me. I know that’s impossible though, so I thought…” The Sniper locked gazes with the Spy, then, face hot, brows drawn together to shadow fierce eyes, and if the marksman’s whispered words with their trance-like clarity, more words than the Spy had ever heard from the man, didn’t put the Spy’s pulse in his ears, that fervent expression did.

 

“…I thought blood would just have to do.”

 

The Spy had to look away from the grim, humourless line of the RED’s mouth as his tongue flickered across his chapped lips again. It was too much! He knew that his quarry was not given to mind games, but he hardly wanted to believe any of this was true. It only served to confuse him, to set him off-kilter with its unexpectedness, but wasn’t that what made him think he was attracted to the Sniper, to begin with? He’d thought that a man so out-of-touch with ordinary human social interaction would provide respite from the dreary banality of people he understood, but had admitted to himself that after this little tryst, the man would probably turn out to be just as much a bundle of wholly calculable pathologies, easily investigated and predicted, after all. Things were not going as planned, and it sickened him, brought white-hot prickles of— not fear, obviously— distress to sting in the muscles below his eyes, flaring across the bridge of his nose and out to his temples. That a bound man could cause in him such a reaction— unthinkable! Would he have to play the role of a simpering, love-sick idiot to lure the Sniper in and give himself the upper hand, again? He’d expected the Sniper to scream, possibly cry a bit, and when he was released, to attempt to kill his captor and flee as quickly as was humanly possible. He’d expected that the trauma incited by this incident might make his own job a little easier for a while as the Sniper would be emotionally keyed-up and lack his usual precision. If the story got out, he could claim it was a form of torture, one that was more effective than pulling fingernails out with a pair of pliers in a place where one could be healed or brought back from the dead with the mere flip of a switch. But of course, the Sniper never claimed to have feelings.

 

The tent in the other man’s green canvas pants caught his eye, and he barely stifled a gasp, realizing that the marksman had turned himself on with his own words, that his captive was extremely erect just from the thoughts running through his mind, and that even though his legs were twitching on either side of his trapped cock, the Sniper had continued to glare intensely at the masked man, scrutinizing his face for any signs of reaction.

 

Undeterred by the creak of leather as the Spy’s hands formed tight fists, the Sniper went on:

 

“So I tried it. You remember when we were at Barnblitz, and you bailed me up when I was getting ammo in that upper room near our third checkpoint? Remember how I heard you step on that one loose board and swung at the air with my kukri? Back edge snagged on your jacket pocket, guess I got lucky, and I just pushed and ran at ya until the bolster sat under yer ribs in the front and the beak tip pushed out th’other side, nicking into the back of yer coat… think I went right through your liver, yeah?” The Sniper’s lip quirked slightly. “You spat blood in my face and said you hated me, as you died, remember? Then, y’shuddered n’ went all dead-weight after, and once I actually unstuck my blade from your guts, I was lookin’ at how steam was risin’ from your blood on the floor, and how it was runnin’ into the cracks in the boards, and it hit me. I looked out the door, but th’cart was goin’ backwards and I guess most of you lot were in Respawn, so I guessed I had a minute. Only, when I licked at my blade, yer blood had already gone cold, and it wasn’t near satisfyin’. Guess it’s different when we’re sweatin’ it out in a desert somewhere, eh?”

 

The Spy couldn’t help but picture it: the RED Sniper, billows of his breath hanging in the air around his head as his broad tongue ran the length of that ridiculous and unnecessarily large knife of his, tiny rivers of the Spy’s own blood staining the steel and then the man’s teeth, hazel eyes glaring through polarized lenses at his dead but still bleeding corpse, even as he was respawned, running silently through the snow outside. He was alive again while this man stood over his prone and lifeless body, tasting his blood. It was the Spy’s turn to shiver.

 

“I DO hate you,” he said.

 

“S’fine,” the Sniper answered, trying to shrug with his arms bound behind him. The Spy moved close again, allowing the inside of his knee to brush the outside of the Sniper’s, briefly, nearly shocked by the heat he could feel through two layers of fabric. Perhaps he was imagining it, but he thought that the other man tried to chase the touch. Could be he was just shifting in his bonds, though.

 

As the Spy lit another cigarette, he regarded the Sniper casually, one arm across his chest to support his smoking arm. “How did you find it?”

 

“What?”

 

“The taste of my blood.”

 

The Sniper looked down, and seemed to notice his state of arousal, before fidgeting in his seat.

 

“Tastes better from the source,” he mumbled, eyes flicking back up to meet the Spy’s, which narrowed at the implication.

 

“Do you mean to say…?”

 

The Sniper simply nodded.

 

In an instant, the Spy was on him, practically sitting in his lap as his talon-like grip dug into the soft flesh under the Sniper’s jaw. His kiss, if you could call it that, was demanding, and he sucked and bit at the Sniper’s cracked lips, making them bleed, then shook as he groaned into the other’s mouth. “You are disgusting,” he whispered harshly, their lips brushing as he spoke, and the Sniper’s hips bucked up into his as far as his restraints would allow. The Spy allowed himself to grind down into that wanting heat, dropping his cigarette to smoulder on the floor, gloved fingers running up over the man’s ears—earning him a muffled gasp— to tangle in his hair and pull, to curl in the sweat-damp locks at the nape of the Sniper’s neck, to dive under his red collar (resisting the sudden urge to throttle the stupid bushman for putting him through this) only to slide over his shoulders and pull at the buttons on his regulation RED shirt. The ties squeaked as the Sniper’s biceps twitched. His fingers (long since gone numb) flexed, itching to grab and hold and possibly tear. The balisong rattled in the Spy’s sleeve and the Spy felt the growl before he heard it, interrupted it by devouring the taste of blood and stale coffee on the man’s tongue.

 

When he broke away with a loud (and to him, revolting) smack, the Spy surveyed the Sniper’s face, his puffy red lips with their cracks beginning to congeal, blood sticky where it was smeared, the way he panted for breath.

 

“S’pose you’ve never licked blood out of the wounds of a dead man, then?” The Sniper’s voice was low, and his gaze almost feral. The Spy’s chuckle reverberated through them both.

 

“Mais non, mon petit puce…” his teeth glimmered in the lamplight, “If I am to take blood from the flesh, I prefer that the heart beneath is still beating.”

 

“My God,” the Sniper answered, and for a moment, the Spy nearly crowed with the thought that he might have unsettled the infuriating man, but the Sniper only said, “You are so fuckin’ French.”

 

The Spy snarled, then lunged and bit the Sniper’s throat, tasting dirt and sweat. The Sniper howled, thrashing. When the Spy pulled away, the Sniper arched under him, hips striving for purchase, snapping sporadically. He grit his teeth, huffed, slid the hard length of his cock against the crease between the Spy’s thigh and hip, and the Spy shifted just slightly to bring that delicious friction where he needed it. The Sniper grinned to feel how hard and hot the Spy was against him, and slowed his thrusts, luxuriating in the slow, torturous pleasure. The sound of fabric rubbing against fabric was impossibly loud in the echoing basement, and the Spy forced himself to slow to the Sniper’s pace, to show the man that he was not, NOT! under any circumstances, desperate. They had all the time in the world, after all. He’d done enough seduction routines to know how to follow a cue, but the Sniper just continued to smirk at him. He bit harshly at the skin just under the Sniper’s ear, and was nearly bucked off by the full-body roll that welled up beneath him. The Sniper’s sharp intake of breath was released in a low, amused growl:

 

"Whyn’cha go ‘head and keep that up, hm?"

 

The Spy almost wanted to stop altogether just to spite the ridiculous idiot, but had to admit to himself that would be something of a waste. Instead he got the lobe of the man’s ear between his teeth and worried it, eyeteeth catching viciously, tongue running behind and along the edge, if only to make the man beneath him squirm and stifle too-telling noises. When he rubbed his gloved thumb over the Sniper’s lips, he found his teeth grit and his jaw tight. He rubbed and pulled at the scabbing lower lip, until the teeth parted and the Sniper’s lips and tongue wrapped around, wetting the buttery leather, licking and sucking and moaning as the Spy continued to work his ear. The Sniper was having something of a tactile experience, sensory overload, and tongued the stitching running over the Spy’s thumb, scraped teeth over the pad, tried to pull more of the Spy’s hand into his mouth, looking for something, anything, to hold onto. He was overwhelmed with the heat of the Spy’s mouth on his neck, his ear, bringing up marks that would be hard to explain, the friction of the Spy’s hard cock against his through layers of fabric, the knowledge of who this was, how they’d gotten to this state.

 

For the first time in what felt like forever, the Spy wanted to remove his gloves. He pulled away from the Sniper to a low sound of discontent, then used his teeth to pull off one glove, his other hand busied with untucking the man’s shirt and opening the rest of the buttons. Then the other glove came off, and the Sniper wanted to catch and examine those hands, learn from them what he could not from the man’s masked face. He craned to see, then memorized by touch as the hands fell on him: the left, back to Sniper’s mouth where tongue and teeth flickered over the sensitive valleys between fingers, the right, stroking up and down the Sniper’s ribs, pushing up his undershirt to dance and scrape over each ridge of flesh and bone.

 

Fingers clammy without the leather, the Spy skidded his hands all over the Sniper’s face, his stomach, his chest, hips still moving to grind, especially with the man’s teeth seeking the pads of his fingers, the spaces between, and when the brush of a thumb over a nipple resulted in a twitch and a grunt. He fell forward, face buried in the Sniper’s neck again, and both hands smoothed up and down his unseen back, feeling for knife scars and shuddering to find them. He could bet that there were more that were smooth, flush with the skin, ones he could not merely feel. He imagined that there were others that, unlike the raised edges of the scars he felt out now, marks of violent slashes and twists of the knife, were but pale lines and crescents across his back, a hairline constellation of the Spy’s little victories. He groaned and dug his nails into one particularly angry scar, and the Sniper thrashed in his bonds.

 

"What was that?" the Spy’s voice was barely above a whisper.

 

"It, I dunno, Christ, it.. It itches, or tingles, or… Fuck, Christ! I don’t, I dunno if I, Lord, would you just take your bleedin’ shirt off?"

 

The Spy leaned back slowly, meeting his enemy’s expectant gaze, and loosened his tie. It wasn’t much of a striptease; mainly, he watched the Sniper’s face for a reaction, or for a sign of weakness. Tie first, then a few buttons on his shirt, then hesitantly, he shrugged out of his blazer, folded it and began to lay it aside, before a thought occurred. He draped his crisp blue suit jacket over the Sniper’s shoulders. The image of the other man in his clothing did something strange to the Spy, and ill-fitting as the custom-tailored suit was on the gangly Sniper, he took in the sight of the dusty, wind-chapped wanderer in that impeccable coat and swallowed thickly. The Sniper, as could only be expected, watched.

 

He pictured the Spy in his hat, and it was wrong, all wrong— anyone trying to wear HIS hat was. Sure, he’d let a sheila or two wear it whilst bouncing on his dick, presumably to keep their hair out of their eyes, but Spy was too… clean, for that, and his mask stopped any little curls of hair from peeking out coquettishly under the brim, and he certainly wouldn’t smile sweetly out from under there, either. The best he’d get was that damn… bleedin’ self-satisfied, ruddy overconfident fuckin’ grimace— he wouldn’t even call it a smirk since the mirth rarely reached his eyes. Once in a great while, when he was performing his fucking vampire trick with the knife, and the battle had run particularly long or sometimes when the damn Spook had been especially successful, his jaw would go a little soft, and he’d lick, slow-like, up the blade, and permit himself a little smile that was actually, far as the Sniper could tell, as close to true as the slitherin’ nit was willing to get. He’d wondered about that smile.

 

How could a bloke get such a soft little smile like that, doin’ something like /licking a dead enemy’s blood off his knife/? It didn’t seem normal, but the Sniper had found he wasn’t the best judge of ‘normality’. It struck a chord, one he’d at least had the sense to hide ever since his mum had found him taking potshots at rabbits and feral goats, chuckling to himself. He’d grin, now’n’then he could feel it, squeezing the trigger when his target was caught totally unawares, and he could just pop their skull, no worries, and they’d go down and anyone nearby would panic and search the windows, the rafters, the catwalks up above, leaving themselves wide, wide open and he could just step to the side, crouch down, wait, wait, for them to think they were safe, before the next perfect shot, but it wasn’t— it wasn’t /soft/ like that.

 

At first he’d wanted to exploit that softness, but no matter how many times he shot that little smile off the Spy’s face, he’d catch it again through the scope, sometime later, like nothing ever happened. The little smile worried him. The big smile turned him on.

 

The Spy’s face was blank as he folded his shirt and tie, and the Sniper’s glare drilled into him as he sat in his undershirt, naked hands falling to his sides, then dancing over Sniper’s thighs and up to his hipbones. They were prominent, and the Spy ran his thumbs over the bone, inside the Sniper’s shirt, finding a strange joy in the other man’s inability to explore him in such a way.

 

He looked away from the Sniper’s face to his lap and back again. It was a simple enough gesture to slide one hand along the waist of the thick canvas trousers and pop the button. The Sniper actually /bit his lip/, like he was /trying/ to reward the Spy with something humiliating. When his zipper was undone, the Sniper stifled a gasp— the Spy’s fingers brushed his skin and teased over his pubic hair, and the masked man was not really all that surprised to find him without underwear, though he was torn between attraction and disgust, again.

 

The Sniper wriggled under him, just a little, and the Spy sneered. He saw the Sniper’s knobbly shoulders shift under the seams of his own dress coat.

 

"This might be a silly question," the marksman finally said, "But are you plannin’ on keeping my hands tied all night?"

 

"Maybe," the Spy answered, serious and cautious. He /could/.

 

"S’pose I expected that." The Sniper rolled his eyes. He willed the tension out of his body; he was a patient man. He was level-headed. If he wasn’t going to be allowed to touch or reciprocate, so be it. The frustration rolled off of him.

 

The Spy’s lip twitched, and the material of the Sniper’s pants felt impossibly rough under his gloveless hands.

 

"S’pose I should be flattered," the Sniper continued. The Spy straightened up, still perched in his enemy’s lap.

 

"That I went to this effort for /you/? Yes, you should," he sniffed.

 

"That you won’t untie me. Y’won’t let me have my hands free. Must be a reason for it." He shrugged, the coat highlighted the motion. "Somehow I doubt it’s an aversion to having a fella touch your John Thomas."

 

"If you are trying to goad me into releasing you, you are not doing a good job of it. This is not particularly subtle."

 

There was a long silence in which the Sniper and Spy stared at eachother, each noticing things in the other’s face he didn’t have time to examine in battle. The Spy observed that this Sniper’s stubble was a bit more pronounced, more grown in at this time of night, than his disguise would depict. The Sniper watched the way the Spy’s eyes seemed to constantly flicker, never focusing on one thing for too long.

 

"You know," he said, "Just because you’re a rotten, double-crossing blighter doesn’t mean /everyone’s/ gotta have an ulterior motive."

 

It was the Spy’s turn to roll his eyes. “This is WAR, you great simpleton. Forgive me for being somewhat untrusting of my /enemies/.” He scoffed. “Alors, perhaps you truly /are/ too stupid to attempt subterfuge and misdirection. Is that the case, you miserable bushrat?”

 

A pause.

 

"…You are really just, /killing/ my hard-on, you know that?"

 

The Spy thought he could make a joke about his talent for murder, but felt it was neither the time nor the place. Instead, he pushed his fingers into the Sniper’s open fly, seizing him without warning. Slowly, he moved a tight grip up the Sniper’s shaft, rubbed his palm over the head, pressed his thumb into the slit, and slid his fist back down, rolling back his foreskin, to begin again, faster. The Sniper practically convulsed under him.

 

"JAY-zus! Fucking, Christ, you could’ve, you— nng."

 

The Spy grinned and leaned forward to scrape his teeth under the Sniper’s jaw, even if it made the angle difficult. The Sniper reacted beautifully, shivering and sighing a shaky moan. When the Spy tightened his grip and moved rougher, quicker, the Sniper began to pant. When he slipped his hand down to rub the Sniper’s balls, to let his middle finger stroke against the marksman’s perineum, he watched the Sniper’s jaw go slack and his head fall back. Miraculously, his hat stayed firmly perched atop his head, and the Spy was struck with the (admittedly juvenile) urge to swat it off. He restrained himself, if just barely, by tugging the Sniper’s trousers down further and resuming his assault with both hands. His right hand moved quickly over his captive’s cock, flushed berry pink and twitching in his grasp, and his left slid over the crease of a thigh, followed it down, rubbed all over until the Sniper sat growling and gasping and thrashing. His knees quivered and he glared up at the Spy from under his hat as his nipples were tweaked and his foreskin was teased. The Spy continually brought him not quite to the edge of orgasm, but even a step before /that/, and then eased off, petted his inner thighs, scratched over his back, nibbled at his neck, until he’d calmed, then everything would begin again, sudden, and violent. He told himself that he was patient enough to withstand it. He could wait. He could take everything as it came and wait, wait for the Spy to do, eh, something. Something else. He could see that the smug bastard was still pretty hard in his slacks, and he imagined that they’d be doing something about that, eventually. It was just a matter of biding his time, until then. He could do that.

 

But /still/.

 

"Oi," he called, quietly, and the Spy paused in his ministrations. "Kneel up, yeah?"

 

The Spy looked at him for a long moment, but slowly unbent his knees so he knelt upright, straddling the Sniper’s legs. The Sniper strained forward, leaning, struggling, but couldn’t get enough leeway on his bonds to close the distance.

 

"Bit closer, mate," he mumbled, and the Spy wondered at being called ‘mate’ by his most loathed enemy. It bothered him in a number of unpleasant ways. Either way, he scooted closer.

 

The Sniper immediately pushed his face into the Spy’s crotch and nearly unbalanced him, attacking his slacks with a fervor that was wholly unexpected. He worried the button with his teeth until it slipped free, couldn’t get purchase on the zipper’s pull, settled for nosing and tugging the zipper open, grumbling all the way, until he could kiss hotly over the Spy’s erection outlined starkly by his stretchy underwear and lave his tongue against the grey lycra until it was damp. His arms strained as he leaned forward, aching to grip the Spy by the hips to press harder, fuller; hungry to dig fingers into soft flesh and hard muscle. The Spy’s jaw tightened and his eyes went half-lidded. The Sniper tugged at the Spy’s undergarments with his teeth, making do, not really in much of a position to pull them down properly, and actually laughed when his efforts resulted in the elastic snapping back on the Spy’s cock and a yelp from the man himself.

 

The Spy fisted a hand in the Sniper’s hair and wrenched his head back. He seethed into the still-grinning face. The slouch hat was askew. He didn’t have any words for the Sniper, not in any human language, and so snarled at him. The Sniper continued to smirk, feeling it served the stupid bleedin’ coward right, for keeping his hands tied.

 

Lip curled back and nicotine-stained teeth bared, the Spy lunged and bit the Sniper’s throat, viciously, teeth worrying the muscle and leaving indentations when he pulled away. The Sniper howled and thrashed and cursed while the Spy rubbed himself against his captive’s thigh.

 

"Yes, just like that…" the Spy teased, breath just ghosting over the Sniper’s ear. "You are far less disgusting when you squirm."

 

"You’re less disgustin’ when you shut the hell up," the Sniper replied, teeth grit. "Which unfortunately is never."

 

"Slings and arrows."

 

The Sniper sneered at the Spy’s glib expression. “Look, aren’t spies supposed to be all sneaky and /silent/, like?”

 

"You act as if I haven’t stabbed you ten times this week."

 

"Oh, right. Silent but deadly."

 

"What’s that?"

 

"Like a fart."

 

The Spy’s response was a roar of frustration.

 

"Aw, don’t be like that, pet," the Sniper murmured, crooked smile stretching his split lip. The Spy glared flatly. "After all…" he said, and shifted his leg about as much as he could, sliding his thigh between the Spy’s legs. The Spy tensed.

 

This was not right. The Sniper acted as though he had the upper hand. The Spy could not stand for that. He would not let the filthy, smirking dolt even /think/ such a thing. He shoved his slacks and underwear unceremoniously down his legs, to where they bunched in the crook of his knees. The Sniper watched, and seemed to fixate on a birthmark on the Spy’s inner thigh. It didn’t look like anything in particular, but the Sniper zeroed in on it.

 

He wanted to memorize its shape, to know something intimate and distinguishing about the Spook, his hooded enemy who wore the faces of others more often than his own. He had the strange urge to bite and suck at that spot and see if the birthmark still showed over a bruise. He licked his lips. The Spy licked his own fingers.

 

Frozen and barely breathing, the Sniper watched the Spy run his tongue over his long, pale hands. He watched two fingers slip into his mouth, curl, and withdraw, slightly shiny in the single directional light. He waited, to see if the Spy was about to do what he thought he was about to do.

 

The Spy lowered his arm, and stroked those two fingers up the underside of the Sniper’s cock, only just barely rubbing the pads of his fingers over the over-sensitized head. Really and all, he’d had enough of this treatment, but bore it in silence, even when the Spy pinched his frenulum, a tightening of his jaw his only reaction. He’d expected retribution, one way or another, and anyway, it was worth it to watch the Spy’s face as he trailed deft fingers so gingerly over veins and ridges. He’d fallen quiet, and his brows drew close, breathing shallowly and silently and looking like all else had ceased to exist outside of this minute study. His fingertips traced the crown and the Sniper bit back his commentary; he guessed ‘you act like you’ve never seen a cock before,’ or ‘bleeding TOUCH it, it ain’t gonna bite’ might actually have the reverse of the desired effect. So, he was back to waiting. As usual.

 

His legs shook slightly but the Spy remained resolute, and when the Sniper thought about it, he thought this kind of… /fascination/ was odd, from the Spy. Three fingertips were the best he got, ghosting over hot flesh, and time ticked on, and his muscles bunched and clenched and despite his best efforts to withstand the lightness of the touches, his hips began to twitch again and while he didn’t want the Spy to think he’d /won/, didn’t want to give the smug ruddy bastard the satisfaction, he thought he might not be able to hold out too terrible much longer. Though, he wasn’t sure what the alternative would be.

 

Begging?

 

Never.

 

“Be willing to try again, then,” he rasped, squinting at his tormentor.

 

“What do you mean?” The Spy’s expression did not change, and his fingers swirled around the Sniper’s slit again. The Sniper hissed.

 

“I mean, usin’ my mouth.”

 

“You did rather a poor job before, bushman. I hesitate to allow you the opportunity twice.”

 

“Oh, CHRIST, like it’s such a bleedin’ HONOUR to suck yer bleedin’ COCK!”

 

“Perhaps it is.”

 

“Aw, HELL. Fine, I won’t then.” The Sniper looked off to the side, but couldn’t help the way he jumped when the Spy palmed his balls.

 

“Hmm,” was all the Spy said, but then he was edging up again, hand gripping the Sniper’s chin, and by the time the Sniper actually turned, the Spy’s erection was right there, and it bounced off his lips when the Spy shifted forward. The Sniper glared and the Spy only quirked an eyebrow, lips still set into an impassive line.

 

Well.

 

The Sniper opened his mouth, and allowed the Spy to slide in. He hadn’t much practice at this— there were a few incidents while he was on in the CMF, but nothing to brag about, mind. Obviously. Anyway, he tried to keep his teeth out of the way, and pushed his tongue up to meet the Spy’s flesh as it invaded and retreated. He found himself concentrating on the tactile experience, like he had with the Spy’s gloves, and with his hands. Without his own hands free, his lips and tongue were the best source of touch sensation, and he closed his eyes to focus. Here was that awful slitherin’ Spy, who left maybe five square inches of flesh exposed during the work day, with his trousers down and his knob out, and starting to make little noises like he actually enjoyed what all the Sniper was trying to do. There was something, actually, fairly attractive about that, and he did his best to wring more sounds like that out of the bloomin’ git, tilting his head and sucking as the Spy pulled back.

 

The Spy gripped the shoulders of his own jacket, still draped over the Sniper and the chair, rocking shallowly into the Sniper’s mouth. No, it wasn’t the best fellatio he’d ever received, not by a wide margin, but watching his most hated enemy turning his head this way and that, craning his neck to please him—/that/ was exquisite. He slid one hand up the filthy bushman’s sweating neck, and tangled fingers in his hair. The ever-present Akubra lay on the ground, finally jostled off, and the Spy looked down to see if the Sniper had noticed. The man’s eyes were closed! His eyes were closed as he lashed his tongue around and slurped and gasped and swallowed, and the Spy let out a sound of contentment that edged on a chuckle. His thumbnail skirted the marksman’s ear and the Sniper sucked in a breath and nearly choked and the Spy did laugh then, as the Sniper tried to voice his discontent but could only mumble tremulously around the stiff cock in his mouth and the Spy wondered if he shouldn’t keep this up, try to come like this and either hold the Sniper down until he swallowed, or perhaps paint his weather-worn face with his release. He combed his fingers through the Sniper’s hair and it would have been affectionate if not for the malice in his face.

 

No, he supposed. He would want the rest, as well.

 

Pushing a thumb into the Sniper’s mouth, he forced the other man to still, and with a press into the spongy flesh under his tongue, pulled his jaw open, and sat back. Then, just because he could, he used that hold to guide the Sniper’s head around, turning him one way, then the other, as if examining him, but really just enjoying the way a single hooked finger with the right pressure could act as reins, could subdue even someone so coarse as the Sniper. He was halfway surprised that the man didn’t even try to bite him.

 

He withdrew his hand, and removed his shoes and undershirt, then the crumpled mess that was his trousers and undergarments. He grimaced as he folded these and laid them aside, imagining the way sweat must have gathered in the creases, and what a state they’d be in when he tried to put them on again, later, but nevermind that, he thought as he settled in the Sniper’s lap, his legs hooking around the chair’s backrest and his feet landing on one of the rungs between the chair’s wooden legs. He toed off his socks for good measure— he’d a long-held notion that it was ungallant to leave one’s socks on. The slightest shift brought his cock to slide against the Sniper’s, and the marksman jolted with an indistinct curse and grit his teeth.

 

“Don’t you think this has really gone on long enough?” he groused, hips falling heavily against the seat once more.

 

“Restless already? I thought you Snipers were a patient bunch.”

 

“At some point, you have to take the damn shot.”

 

The Spy paused, and surveyed his enemy. “Ah, well, if you insist…” he said, with a slight tilt of his head and smile that on anyone else might be described as indulgent.

 

“Sure, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’.” The Sniper’s hips twitched, though, belying his gruff demeanor.

 

The Spy leaned forward, left hand bracing on the Sniper’s right shoulder, as he fished in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The little glass jar he produced was labeled “MOROLINE”, and the Sniper watched as the Spy unscrewed the lid and swirled a finger in the whitish jelly inside and gathered up a fairly large dollop of the stuff. Silently, the Spy placed the jar on the floor and then kneeled up again, giving the Sniper a hard look before moving that hand behind himself and beginning to rub at his entrance. The Sniper couldn’t see what the Spy was doing, though he could guess, and lamented the position that didn’t let him watch the Spy rubbing fingers over his own arse hole and maybe, there, that tense of his shoulder and bicep, that twist of the elbow, beginning to push a finger in, making his own brow furrow and his lashes flutter. The Spy’s face, then, became the focal point of the Sniper’s interest, as that hawk-like nose scrunched and those thin lips twitched and that square chin quivered with what was either discomfort, concentration, or pleasure.

 

How many times had the Spy done this to himself, the Sniper wondered, in the shower, or perhaps on his back, in bed, with his knees drawn up and his other hand fairly flying over his own cock? How many fingers did he have inside now? Had he ever done this, thinking about the Sniper himself? If it was true that the Spy had been plotting this for a while, that he’d harboured this strange attraction for possibly longer, then maybe, maybe he had, maybe he’d spread himself out in his bed and touched himself, fucked himself, with images of a standard RED shirt and tinted gunner glasses, dancing behind his eyes. Maybe, if the timing was right, he’d even done it with the taste of the Sniper’s blood still lingering, having licked it from his blade, and maybe, he’d pull his knife out in the midst of it, to probe his tongue into the bit handle and seek out any he might have missed. The Sniper could just see the Spy, with two or three fingers knuckle-deep in his arse, running the back edge of his knife down his chest to rest against his cock, sliding the flat up and down, rubbing the cool metal over his hot flesh until the blade warmed, sliding it through the slickness at the head and down again, smearing the shiny surface with the evidence of his desire. He shivered.

 

The Spy’s teeth were grit and his lip curled back, and his hips twitched as his arm moved and tensed.

 

“Crikey…” the Sniper mumbled, and the Spy opened his eyes to question him. He didn’t have to. The Sniper’s pupils were hugely dilated as he took in every detail of the Spy’s performance, and the Spy felt, oddly, like the Sniper was… admiring him. It sounded ludicrous, even in his own head, but the Sniper’s face was so open and wanting. It was like that when he confessed earlier to having watched the Spy indulge his vices. Perhaps admiration was not the right word, but the Spy felt caught by the expression, regardless. He slowly removed his fingers from inside himself, and with his other hand, tugged a handkerchief from that same inner pocket in his coat that the petroleum jelly had come from. The way he wiped his fingers was quick and precise. The way he folded the kerchief with the stain /inside/ was even more so. The way he straddled the Sniper and began to ease himself down on his cock was anything but.

 

The Sniper held still, watching the Spy’s face. His jaw clenched, his fingers gripped the Sniper’s shoulders, his head fell back slightly as he slipped down, and when he sat flush against the Sniper’s hips with his legs wrapped around the back of the chair again, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out and opened eyes he was a little ashamed to have closed, and allowed his lips to turn up when he saw the way the Sniper’s brows had shot up and the way his jaw hung open. The Sniper blinked rapidly when he realized the Spy had stopped moving.

 

“Christ,” he said quietly.

 

“Not quite,” the Spy answered, lifting himself again to thrust down once more, harder, and again, building a rhythm that had the Sniper squirming and panting. He stroked his hands down his own chest and stomach, teased his tip, watched the Sniper watch him. He leaned back slightly and shuddered, trying to drive down on that spot, even though the leverage was bad. He twisted and arched, he rolled his hips, he bucked and clenched and rocked, and while the stretch was good, it wasn’t /there/. A growl welled up in his throat before he could stop it, and he forced his hips up and down viciously, head whipping from side to side.

 

“Untie my hands, Spook,” the Sniper demanded, voice rough.

 

“No, I don’t…” he gripped the Sniper’s thighs behind him, “I don’t think I will.” He pushed his feet against the rungs of the chair, hauled himself up with a grip on the Sniper’s rumpled collar and fell forward, his forehead buried in the crook of the Sniper’s neck and moved slowly, riding the Sniper’s dick and feeling as much as hearing the man’s harsh breaths.

 

“Come on,” the gravelly voice was right at his ear, “Do it. If it makes you feel better you can leave my feet tied, but gimme my hands.”

 

“Why should I?” He disguised his breathlessness with a whisper, and

turned his face so he could teethe at the Sniper’s neck again, and the

Sniper groaned and thrust his hips up even harder to meet the Spy’s

downward pitch, and the Spy shivered because it was /almost/, almost…

 

“Because,” he spat, “If you give me my hands, I will grip your hips until they bruise and bounce you on my cock like yer arse was made of rubber.”

 

Ah. Well.

 

“I suppose when you put it /that/ way…”

 

“Too bleedin’ right! Untie my damn hands!”

 

The Spy reached into his coat again and withdrew his knife. The Sniper’s heart rate picked up at its particular rattle. Then, the flat was worming under his bonds, and that same sharp flick and tug that had undone his gag sliced through the twisted cloth that bound his wrists. His hands were so numb that moving his arms was a conscious effort, and he rubbed them blindly on the Spy’s thighs, fingers

skidding, trying to get some feeling back into them. His fingertips were bright with constricted blood, and as pins and needles set in, he flexed his fingers and elbows and worked through the pain, as he often did, and the Spy grew impatient and bucked against him again, and he grinned up at his captor from under his brows.

 

“There we are, then,” he said, his tone dark. He slid one hand up one of Spy’s thighs, over his hip, up to his chest, to twist a nipple roughly but the Spy couldn’t jolt because the Sniper, true to his word, held his other hip in a vice-grip. He pressed his thumb just inside the pelvic dip, over a cluster of veins, and the Spy thrashed.

 

“What do you think you are doing?!” the Spy hissed, hands going around the Sniper’s throat, just in case.

 

“Aw, well, y’know…” The Sniper flicked the Spy’s nipple again then raked his nails down from there back to his inner thigh. He brushed his knuckles against the Spy’s balls and shaft, then wrapped his hand, rough with the calluses of triggers and bowstrings, firmly around him, jerking his hand upwards with quick, uneven strokes.

 

The Spy’s response was a sudden intake of breath, his fingers, feeling naked, wrapping tightly in the Sniper’s collar. He shook, and brought himself up and down again, shallowly, but it still wasn’t enough. A few more attempts and he felt like tearing his hair out in frustration.

 

Finally, he seized the Sniper’s wrist and forced the man’s hand to his hip.

 

“You made me a promise, bushman. I expect you to follow through.”

 

The Sniper chuckled and stroked his thumbs over the Spy’s hipbones. When the masked man attempted to roll his hips again the Sniper held him fast and he snarled and slammed his fists against the Sniper’s clavicles and cursed him in at least three languages but the Sniper only continued to laugh.

 

“What’s the matter, pet?” he teased, squeezing the Spy’s arse and causing him to clench and writhe.

 

“I will not play this game with you, you miserable cretin! Either we shall handle this like adults or I will cut out your throat and wear your larynx as a necktie.”

 

Still grinning like an idiot, the Sniper dug his fingers into the Spy’s sides and heaved him up and down. The Spy tensed, because already that was better and he leaned into the next thrust, seeking and chasing his own pleasure.

 

“You wouldn’t do that, darlin’,” the Sniper insisted calmly, though the effect was ruined by the huskiness of his voice. “You’d get blood on yer suit.”

 

The Spy did not answer, merely threw his body weight into the next downward push, reveling in the Sniper’s groan, and the way the man’s

large hands clutched him tighter and pulled him over his cock, faster and faster, snapping his hips up even as the muscles of his abdomen quivered, and when the Spy leaned back slightly, /there/, it was /perfect/, and he moaned, and didn’t dare look at the Sniper’s face as he was likely mocking him for this lapse in composure but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that, because with the Sniper holding him right there, it was almost electric, it was wonderful, and perfect and he shuddered and felt his nipples tighten and bit the inside of his lip.

 

He hurled himself into the Sniper’s upward motion, and the Sniper leaned forward to get closer, and the Spy cried out and arched back and the Sniper followed him and the poor chair tipped on its legs and sent them crashing to the floor.

 

“Sodding BOLLOCKS—!” the Sniper roared, his knees smarting, grabbing for the Spy’s knife which had skittered across the cement in the fall and while the Spy tried to pull his wits together, after having smacked his head solidly against the ground, he could only register the Sniper sawing furiously through the ties at his ankles before flinging the chair away with a tremendous clatter, cursing all the while.

 

He was leaning over the Spy again in an instant, ignoring the various pains from the unceremonious fall. The Spy had a brief moment of panic when he realized that /mon dieu/, the Sniper got /loose/, but the man only grabbed him by the hipbones again and attempted to realign himself and it was awkward for a second or two until the Spy supported himself on his elbows and shoulderblades and wrapped his legs around the Sniper so the marksman could actually use his hands to position himself and angle back in and once he did it was hot and beautiful again. The Spy groaned and pressed his heels into the Sniper’s lower back and the Sniper fell forward a bit, and braced his palms on the Spy’s shoulders, looming over him, panting. His face was red and his hair fell into his eyes and the Spy reached up to twist a few strands around his fingers, and pulled. He got a hiss and a grunt in response and the Sniper shook his head but the Spy tugged at his roots until the Sniper leaned into the pull and the Spy could kiss him. They growled and bit at each other’s lips and it was good, so good, and when the Spy arched the Sniper struck that spot within him and the Spy made a strangled sound that made the Sniper’s heart flutter and his cock throb.

 

His fingernails bit into the Spy’s shoulders as he hauled them off the floor, forcing the masked man to bend double, before slamming him down again, breathing heavy through his teeth. The Spy clocked his head again and barked out a curse, hands flying to protect the back of his skull and the Sniper chuckled quietly and grabbed at the Spy’s wrists, pinning them to the cement. He watched those pale hands twitch, and felt the tendons shift under his own, but the Spy only arched and pushed against the Sniper’s back with his feet.

 

It seemed strange to the Sniper, and he wondered if maybe the Spy was about to do something horrible, but when he scanned the man’s features, he saw only a softness around his jaw and half-lidded eyes. He drew back and pushed in again, slowly, and the Spy moaned low in his throat as each inch penetrated him. The Spy writhed when the Sniper sat fully sheathed, and even when the Sniper let go of his wrists, he kept them where they lay against the concrete.

 

"Mnh," was all the Spy said, and so the Sniper drew out again, slow, and paused, watching the Spy’s lips stretch and purse like he wanted to form words, watching him blink and try to keep his eyes open. His thrust back in was harsh and the Spy gasped, and held his breath, and let it out in a shaky sigh as the Sniper grasped the Spy’s flanks and withdrew and then the Spy gasped again when the Sniper forced himself back in.

 

When the Spy began to clench the Sniper’s grip slipped and his jaw tightened.

 

"Christ, Lord, Spook…!" He could hardly concentrate anymore, couldn’t keep his eyes open, could only pick up his pace and listen to the Spy’s grunts and gasps.

 

"You ah, y’gettin close?" He squinted at the masked face. It was turned to press hard against the floor. The Spy’s throat where the mask rode up, and the space between his collarbones, was flushed red, and blotchy. The noise he made in his throat hardly even sounded like him.

 

The Sniper shook his hair out of his face; the sweat was beginning to make it stick and he wondered if he could hold out long enough for the Spy to come first. He licked his lips.

 

He slid one hand across the Spy’s stomach, feeling out the muscles where they bunched and shuddered, fingertips ghosting the dip of the navel and tracing hair down to his erect cock and smudging precome where it dripped, following curve and line until the Spy stuttered out something hungry and wanting and the Sniper had to wrap his fist around the twitching length and stroke it as hard and as fast as he was pushing and pulling into and out of the body beneath him. He realized he was mumbling something, encouragements, under his breath, that he was telling the Spy yes, please, telling him to come, telling him that he wanted to watch, that he wanted to see it happen and make it happen, that it was going to be good, please, just do it.

 

He didn’t think the Spy was listening, really, but he could see the flesh shifting over bone as the man moved, constantly, unable to keep still, his hands clenching into fists, short nails digging into his palms, and then the Spy reared up, grabbed handfuls of the Sniper’s shirt, and the Sniper jolted and braced in case the Spy thought this would be a good time to kill him, but the Spy was cumming, over the Sniper’s hand and onto his own lower belly and his eyes were clenched shut and his mouth stretched wide around a silent scream and his nose scrunched and his whole body shook.

 

The Sniper was so close, he could feel the tension winding to a head, and then the Spy relaxed, and made a sound of approval or contentment that was so soft but so true that the Sniper couldn’t take it couldn’t stand it and his brows furrowed and he grimaced and then he was cumming into his enemy with a sharp “Bleedin’, /Christ/—!” and one, last, deep push.

 

He sagged back when the world came back to him, and let out a long, hissing sigh. When he glanced down at the Spy, he hadn’t moved, and was simply lying on his back, breathing, with his eyes closed. The Sniper set about pulling up his trousers, and located his hat, and then cast another quick look at the Spy. The man slowly sat up, and passed hands over his face, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at the Sniper. His eyes looked so tired.

 

Was this the man that this person was, before he was The Spy?

 

The Sniper cast about, wondered where the Spy had hidden his rifle and kukri, wondered how he was going to get out of wherever he was. A rustling told him that the Spy was digging through the pockets of his coat, which lay crumpled where it landed when the chair collapsed. The kerchief came out again to swab the splashes of semen from his stomach and inner thighs, and then it was tucked away and the cigarette case replaced it, but then the Spy patted that pocket, then the other, then his sleeves, then whisked the jacket up to peer under it, looked around quickly, brow creasing, eyes widening, jaw clenching as he sat naked and worried and searching the floor.

 

"Err. Lookin’ for this?" The Sniper held out the Spy’s knife. He’d pocketed it after cutting the ties at his ankles and had considered using it to end the Spy’s life, but the man clutching his little silver case and panicking somewhat on the ground hardly seemed like the /Spy/, at all. The tightness was gone from around his eyes and his naked sweaty hands left fingerprints on the case’s shiny metal. It felt wrong.

 

"Yes," the Spy admitted quietly, taking the folding knife back with uncertain hands. "…Thank you." He watched the Sniper carefully, and tucked the knife back into the folds of the jacket, somewhere. He pulled on his slacks and his shirt, then his coat, before sticking a cigarette between his lips and grasping for his lighter. The cigarette hung loosely, and he didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work the lighter. It just kept striking, with no flame. The Sniper stood by, watching all of this, wondering what was going to happen, generally, and feeling distinctly off-centre.

 

“‘Spose you could kill me now,” he said, as the Spy finally got a light, and took a deep drag. The Spy looked up as if he’d forgotten the Sniper was there, and shrugged.

 

"I suppose I could."

 

He plucked another cigarette from the case, drawing it from the middle and re-centering the others after he did. He offered it to the Sniper.

 

"Er. Cheers," the Sniper said, accepting it about as hesitantly as the Spy took his knife. "Got a light?"

 

The Spy passed his lighter over and the Sniper lit his cigarette, inhaling the flavored smoke and listening to the way the black paper crackled as it burned. He passed the lighter back.

 

"So then why aren’t you?"

 

"Why aren’t I what?" The Spy exhaled a plume of smoke from where he sat, watched the Sniper take shallower drags than he did, straightened his lapels.

 

"Killing me."

 

The Spy considered for a moment.

 

"You might as well," the Sniper continued lightly, slightly sardonic, "Save me the walk back."

 

"There is no satisfaction in assisted suicide. Not for me, at any rate."

 

"Well, I don’t suppose I’d want you to have the satisfaction, anyway."

 

The Sniper sat, some distance away, and they smoked in silence.

 

"Do you know you’re like a different person when you’ve a cock in yer arse?" the Sniper asked at length.

 

"Yes well," the Spy answered, brushing him off. It had an air of finality about it.

 

More silence passed between them.

 

"Where d’you even get these?" The Sniper gestured with his cigarette.

 

"I have them imported by the carton."

 

"Thought a bloke like you would appreciate rollin’ his own." The Sniper had long been in the habit, and was well-acquainted with the way it was a process-based activity, to be performed by quick, skilled fingers.

 

"I did, at one point. I have grown fond of these, though."

 

"Since how long?"

 

"Years now. I picked them up on a job in the Far East."

 

"You been to Asia, then?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You ever miss it?"

 

"No." A pause. "I do miss the food. I have yet to find a single establishment anywhere else that makes a decent egg drop soup."

 

The Spy finished his cigarette, and stood, crushing the butt underfoot. The Sniper scrambled up as well, though his cigarette was only half-finished. The Spy’s brand was harsher than he was used to, despite the filter. Already the Spy was fishing for another one, but there were only two left in his case. He frowned and put it back in his pocket.

 

"Well then," he stood with his hands in his pockets, shirt unbuttoned, barefoot, surveying the Sniper.

 

"Yeah," the Sniper said.

 

Each looked the other over.

 

"So… Er, /are/ you plannin’ to kill me?" the Sniper asked quietly.

 

"I suppose I could," the Spy repeated, taking a few steps toward his enemy. He pulled out his knife and flipped it open. The Sniper stood his ground as the Spy pressed the blade to his throat. It wasn’t yet enough to break skin, but the Spy brought his other hand up to wind in the hair at the nape of the Sniper’s neck, holding his head still.

 

The Sniper watched something of the Spy that the Sniper knew came back, making those terrifyingly blue eyes go hard and cold again, and the marksman had a second to panic before the knife bit into his skin. It was a slow press, and the Sniper’s hands flew up on instinct, but the Spy was very good at what he did, and smiled at him as he drew the steel through his flesh. He hadn’t severed anything vital yet, and the Sniper struggled, blood welling in the cut.

 

"Remember always, Monsieur Sniper. I really /do/ hate you."

 

He pressed down a little harder, and the Sniper’s hands clutched uselessly at his arms. His lips struggled to make words.

 

"Be… s-seein’… you," he managed, before, with an artful slash, the Spy sliced his throat open, and he choked and gurgled, and died.

 

The Spy watched the body fall, and it wasn’t at all like the battlefield.

 

Still, he brought his knife to his lips and licked a long stroke up the blade, and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I know this is a long one. 
> 
> For more stuff, stuff that won't appear on this AO3 (in all likelihood), feel free to find me on tumblr under the same name. c:


End file.
